When I entered the Senate in May 1980 it had been in session for five months. Although I had worked there as an aide to Senator Muskie, nearly two decades earlier, I had never personally experienced a filibuster. Not long after I arrived one occurred. Curious, I went to the Senate chamber at the appointed hour and took my seat. I was surprised to see that I was the only senator there. After several minutes another senator entered. He stood, was recognized by the presiding officer, and began to speak. He then spoke for a long time. He was followed by another senator who did the same thing, and then another. I spent several hours in my seat, listening. I eventually realized that I wasn’t learning anything, so it was well after midnight when I walked over to a Senate aide standing by the door to the chamber.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I’m new here.” Before I could go on he said, “Senator, that’s obvious to everyone.” Undaunted, I asked him where all the other senators were. “Where did they go? What do they do during a filibuster?” I asked.
“They’re doing the sensible thing. They’re sleeping,” he said. “Come on, I’ll show you.” With that, as I followed, he walked out the door, took a few steps, and entered a large darkened room. There, to my astonishment, I saw, spread out, many canvas folding cots of the type I associated with emergency shelters. On the cots were United States senators: all male, all sleeping, mostly elderly and snoring. “There,” the clerk said, pointing, “There’s an empty cot in the middle. You’d better grab it.” There were no aisles, so to get to the empty cot I had to climb over other senators. The first was Ted Kennedy. He was a big man, and at that moment he looked to me like Mount Everest. But, slowly and carefully, I got over him without waking him up. I finally made it to the empty cot and as I lay down I began to have second thoughts about having given up a federal judgeship for the Senate. I had been a dignified person in a black robe; now, here I was, lying on a narrow, uncomfortable cot in my suit with a bunch of old men in suits, while a few senators spent the whole night on the Senate floor talking but saying little. I began to feel a sense of regret, even self-pity, when I rolled over on the cot and looked, on the next cot, directly into the sleeping face of Senator John Warner of Virginia. He then was married to Elizabeth Taylor. After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity I thought, “Who am I to feel sorry for myself? There, just a few inches away from me is a man who could be home, legally in bed with Elizabeth Taylor, but who instead is spending the night with me.” At that moment I recalled what we all know to be true: No matter how bad off you may think you are, somebody is worse off. You can waste your time in self-pity, or you can do something about whatever problems you face. Then and there, I decided that’s what I would do. I haven’t felt any self-pity since, thanks to John Warner, who I hadn’t then met but who was a very capable senator and later became a good and valued friend.